


i miss you like sleep (and there's nothing romantic about the hours i keep)

by uppityroman



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Experimental Style, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Healing, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, POV John Watson, Presumed Dead, Rebuilding, Writing Exercise, excessive use of the word 'and', weird writing choices on behalf of the author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uppityroman/pseuds/uppityroman
Summary: Sherlock is dead for two years, four weeks, and two days when he comes back to life.DISCLAIMER, this story is probably the most angsty thing I've ever written. It deals with the grief/mourning of John losing Sherlock after the Fall, and topics of Sherlock's death, as he is presumed dead for part of this fic. Please continue with caution if you're easily upset by such things.
Relationships: Past John Watson/Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	i miss you like sleep (and there's nothing romantic about the hours i keep)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Heavy Heart" by You Am I. 
> 
> This is the first fic I've completed in a really long time and oh my god I'm so proud of it. I wrote this in a rush at one in the morning and then heavily edited the next day, so there's a lot of weird stylistic choices going on here that I'm just trying out. I hope you enjoy it!!! xx

Sherlock has been dead for a day. 

Sherlock has been dead for only a day, and John’s eyes are red and raw and puffy. Mrs Hudson brings him tea a few times, once in the morning, and twice in the evening, not bothering to force a stiff conversation. She’s been crying too, John can see it, but she doesn’t say anything of it. He knows he’s being cold, he should offer her kind words and sympathy and at the very least _company_ but he just can’t. 

He sits in his armchair staring at the empty one across from him, the one where Sherlock should be sitting, laughing and solving cases and calling John an idiot. He should _be there,_ and John’s whole body is screaming out in pain. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat. Everything is grey.

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for just over a week. 

John has showered nineteen times in that week and still feels gross and distant. He stands in the shower in silence until the heat gets too much for him, and then a bit more. He sits in his chair and stares at the empty walls and feels nothing. After a few days, Mrs Hudson makes him eat. She sits up with him (not in Sherlock’s chair, that would be much, _much,_ too much) and watches him until he’s done. It’s pathetic, John thinks. He’s a grown man, and she’s treating him like a child, like _her_ child when it isn’t her responsibility to look after him. He should be looking after himself, taking care of himself. He should be taking care of her.

On Sunday she comes up and watches telly with him, and he’s grateful for the distraction. He doesn’t take in a word of what’s going on on the show they’re watching, of course, but it gives him something to look at other than Sherlock’s stupid empty chair. 

He calls Sherlock’s phone over and over and over and over. _“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

The voicemail is the only thing he has left. John cries. He can’t help himself. 

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for two weeks. 

The funeral is small. Sherlock’s parents aren’t there, and for a moment, John thinks about the fact that he never thought to ask Sherlock about his family. There are so many things he never got to ask Sherlock, so many things that went unsaid, unfulfilled. 

He never knew Sherlock’s favourite colour or his favourite book. He’d never thought to ask him anything personal after that first night, not really, and all he feels now is regret. There are things he never got to learn about Sherlock Holmes, and now he never will.

 _“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

John dials from memory, over and over, just to hear it again.

 _“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

_“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment.”_

_“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available,”_

_“Sorry, Sh-”_

* * *

Sherlock has been dead a month. 

John is leaving 221B. He rents a flat across London and moves out. Mrs Hudson doesn’t say anything on this matter, just hugs and lets him carry on with his life. He feels bad leaving her alone, but he can’t be there any more. Not by himself, not with a shattered heart and a twitching hand and the pain in his shoulder and leg starting to come back. There’s a part of him that feels like he needs to be stronger than this, but he can’t. Everything hurts far too much. Even glancing at Sherlock’s chair, at the experiments still set up on the kitchen counter, the empty but still lived-in looking room at the end of the hallway hurts. Everything of Sherlock’s is exactly as he’d left it, one month and two days ago.

Like he’s going to pop back into existence at any moment. But he isn’t.

He isn’t.

He stops seeing his therapist. Ella is just telling him he needs to talk, but he can’t, he can’t. He can’t and she can’t understand why he can’t. He stops showing up, she stops asking him to, and the payments stop going through. 

John doesn’t leave his new flat for weeks. When he finally goes back to work, over a month later, he spends the whole day avoiding questions and thanking people for their half-arsed words of empathy for him. _I’m so sorry about your friend, John. I’m so sorry about what happened, John. I’m here if you ever need to talk. I know you two were such close friends._

“Friends” doesn’t even begin to cover it, John thinks. 

Sarah tells him that she’s always there if he needs a chat, and he can’t say anything except to thank her and ask her to send in his next patient. Work is good, safe. Work is something he can think about that isn’t Sherlock and doesn’t make him want to be sick and cry and yell and punch the wall and break everything in his line of sight. He has a purpose, and that purpose is to heal.

He’s a doctor, and that’s what doctors do.

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for six months. 

John has been visiting his grave at least once a week since he was buried. The flowers he leaves there are collected by whoever cleans up, but he continues to bring fresh ones with him every visit, joking without a response to the stone that he’ll be at a loss by the end of the year. 

He allows himself to cry, only sometimes, when there’s no one else around. Because good god Sherlock, _why did you have to go_? 

Greg comes over with a box. A box full of Sherlock’s things, pens and old memories that John had been trying not to think of. Pictures from the newspapers, taken on bad smart-phone quality cameras. 

There’s the disk in there too, and John watches it, drinking heavily and trying to keep himself together. It’s a video, stupid, stupid video, of Sherlock being a prick and making excuses for not showing up to John’s birthday do. _God,_ John thinks, _God, come back. Please, please come back._

_I would do anything._

_“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment.”_

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for a year. 

The date hits John like a slap in the face. He doesn’t even realise they’re coming up on it until he checks Twitter that day and is bombarded with hashtags and tweets and words of sympathy and remembrance. They’re doing it to honour Sherlock, John knows, but he can’t bear to look. He wants to vomit, but he doesn’t even have the energy. Mycroft sends him flowers, _flowers,_ and John can do nothing but stare at them numbly and throw them in the bin. 

It’s harsh, he knows, but he doesn’t know what else to do. 

He thinks of calling Mrs Hudson, the idea of her being alone saddens him so deeply he almost caves, but it’s been months since he even spoke to her, and he can’t just turn up now. His hands linger over the keypad of his new cellphone, itching to pull up her contact. _Aching_ to pull up Sherlock’s contact, as he did so many times those first few months, just to hear Sherlock’s snippy voicemail. 

He installs Tindr instead. 

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for just over a year and a half.

John is on a date. 

Mary is absolutely lovely. She’s kind and loving and funny and when John is with her, he doesn’t think about Sherlock. They’ve been seeing each other for a few months, and John is wondering how early is too early to ask someone to live with him. 

He hates living alone, always has. It makes him feel isolated in a way nothing else is able to and he hates it more than anything else. 

Mary makes John feel… not alone. She knows about Sherlock, Christ, it’s impossible for anyone not to know, but she lets him talk through everything. Well, not everything, he can’t tell her the whole truth. The whole truth hurts too much for that, but she doesn’t make fun of him or treat him like a wimp or a loser for mourning his best friend’s death almost two years after the fact. She’s nice and good and is everything he knows he should want. And he does want her, he does, because being with her makes his life seem normal. Seem okay. 

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for almost two years. 

Mary knows this, of course. They’ve been living together for a while now, and it’s orderly and normal and good. John feels okay and safe and not crazy for once in his life and then _the day_ comes and suddenly everything is crashing down around his head and it’s terrible again. He’d thought it would get easier. It doesn’t. 

“ _Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

“ _Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

 _“Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

Mary catches him listening to the message in their bedroom that evening, and he cries and cries and she can only sit there and hold him while he breaks down into pieces in a way he hasn’t before. He’s _moved on._ He’s moved on and there’s no going back because Sherlock Holmes is _dead._

She says he’s torturing himself.

He isn’t torturing himself. It’s all he has left, _that’s_ the torture. 

* * *

Sherlock has been dead for two years, three weeks, and one day. 

John visits Mrs Hudson, and she almost punches him. She doesn’t of course, because she’s an old woman well into her seventies at the very least, and she has manners, but John can tell she wants to. He would deserve it. 

_So soon after Sherlock?_

The words ring in his ears as he leaves. He’d known it was a bit early to propose to Mary but… he’d thought it was the right thing to do. It was, of course, it was. She made him feel normal, safe. 

_But Sherlock made you feel special,_ a voice in his head says, unbidden. _Excited, thrilled, never bored._

Shut up. Sherlock was _not_ his boyfriend.

“ _Sorry, Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment. Or ever, really. If you do_ desperately _need something from me, feel free to contact my blogger. Or don’t I don’t care. Good day.”_

And Sherlock is dead. 

* * *

Sherlock is dead for two years, four weeks, and two days when he comes back to life. 

John beats the living shit out of him. Three times. 

He doesn’t mean to, only he does, and he hates himself for it. But it’s all he can do and he gets in the cab at the end of it all, an engagement ring burning a hole in his pocket and Sherlock’s blood on his knuckles and a pounding headache and anger pumping in his veins and Mary _not understanding why he’s so angry._

#sherlockholmeslives

Go figure.

* * *

Sherlock lives. Sherlock lives to plan John’s wedding to the tee. He goes to cake tastings, suit fittings, flower pickings. He is polite to all of the bridesmaids when they are fitted for dresses and only yells at people when he’s very annoyed. He solves a murder at the reception, just for fun. 

It’s a beautiful ceremony. John almost cries at Sherlock’s speech, because _god,_ Sherlock lives and he is _so alive_ and so painfully present. Sherlock lives without him. Sherlock lives while John is with Mary, his now-apparently-pregnant wife who he loves. She’s still there for him and they’re there for each other and everything is perfect because now he has a wife and Sherlock and everything and everything is perfect.

Perfect. 

* * *

Sherlock barely lives for six months before Mary shoots him in the abdomen and he almost doesn’t live anymore. 

Suddenly, nothing is perfect.

The fact that Mary was lying to him is like being kicked in the gut. _She’s not supposed to be like that. She isn’t supposed to be like that because she was perfect and GOOD!_

Everything in his life is a lie, one big lie and there’s nothing he can do about it. He forgives her, over and over and over again because that’s all he knows what to do and Sherlock keeps backing her up. John has no idea why because it would be so much easier to hate her if Sherlock hated her. Everything would be easier if his lying wife wasn’t pregnant with his child and if none of this had ever happened in the first place. 

They have the baby and John loves her with all of his heart. Things with Mary are better but still hurt. 

He forgives her over and over and over again. He chooses to forgive her every single day.

And then she leaves. And it’s just like before.

And regardless of the fact that she comes back, she still left. 

* * *

Sherlock Holmes lives, and Mary Watson dies.

Really, truly dies.

He sees it this time, and there are no tricks, no big reveal. She is dead and buried in the ground. 

And John beats the everloving _shit_ out of Sherlock again.

It’s his fault. It’s _his fault._

It’s his fault because he can still see Mary everywhere he looks and she’s always saying the same thing with the same look on her face and he _HATES IT and it isn’t fair._

* * *

Sherlock isn’t the same after everything. The drugs had taken him somewhere terrible, and John had _let them._ Doctors are supposed to help, supposed to heal. John was selfish. And then when they thought it was all okay again, they almost die, all of them, him, Sherlock, and Mycroft, and everything hurts so much. 

Sherlock isn’t the same. Sherlock Holmes lives, but he doesn’t _live._

John and Rosie are doing their best. John takes Rosie to playgroup on Tuesdays and Fridays, smiling a forced smile as the mums there give him judgemental side-eyes for being the only single father and he hates it. He lives for cases, and suddenly, he knows how it feels to be Sherlock. He’s going through the motions of living. He spends too much time at 221B and laughs it off when Sherlock says that he should move back in. He wants to, but he can't. Not yet. 

He stops wearing his ring. It doesn't hurt the way it should and John isn't sure why. 

* * *

The healing is hard. It’s long and painful and results in many a messy apology. Rosie stays with Molly for these nights, where John and Sherlock sit in their respective armchairs and talk. John apologises over and over and over and he cries and lets Sherlock see him. 

Sherlock apologises over and over and holds John is him arms for longer than he ever has in their lives. John has never heard Sherlock apologise as many times in all of knowing him as he does when they talk now.

They rebuild. They rebuild everything, the flat, their lives, and by the time John finally concedes and moves back into 221B, everything feels almost normal. It’s months and months and months later when he finally feels comfortable enough to start making jokes again, but the time comes, as it always does, and the first time he makes Sherlock laugh again is like a crescendo in his brain.

That’s when he realises, he thinks. When he made Sherlock laugh that first time. It’s not a big discovery, something that shakes him. He is just suddenly, overwhelmingly hit by it.

He’s in love.

He loves Sherlock Holmes.

Only John would realise he's in love with his best friend while crouching over a cadaver in the middle of the street. 

* * *

Rosie loves Baker Street. She loves Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and the flat and everything. John supposes that’s normal for a baby, but still, it’s nice to know she’s happy. 

(John loves Baker Street too, but he hasn't said it yet.)

There is an afternoon a few weeks after everything where Sherlock is out of the house for several hours. John knows where he is, even though he doesn’t say it. Neither of them do, but he comes back home later that day and from that point on anyone who says a negative word about Molly Hooper around Sherlock gets well and truly fucked up. Sherlock is getting better at apologies, John thinks. 

Soon, they don't have to keep apologising. There comes a time when John tries to apologise again and again, and Sherlock hushes him and hugs him and tells him it's okay. They've both apologised enough, and for once, John agrees. It takes a little while, but they go back to smiling. Weeks pass, and they're laughing again. 

* * *

The flirting starts sometime after that. John doesn’t even realise he’s doing it at first, but after a while, lingering touches become longer, eye contact becomes drawn out to unnecessary lengths. Sherlock lends him his scarf after a long case, John fixes Sherlock’s hair when it gets out of place. 

They joke, and they jest, and then one night after a long case they stop joking and start acting and John isn’t sure completely how it happens but he wakes up the next morning wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, in Sherlock’s _bed,_ and it’s heaven.

Sherlock Holmes lives. 

_God_ yes.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is dead for four years, five months, two weeks, and six days when they get married. But god is he _so alive._ John can’t handle another big wedding so it’s just them and the people that matter and it’s right and perfect and bright and _this is what it’s supposed to feel like_. 

John is so breathtakingly in love. 

Sherlock looks radiant, and John can’t imagine how he ever lived his life without him, without this. Sherlock cries, the only time John has ever seen him do so, really, and John holds his hand and kisses him all over his face. 

Even Mycroft comes. Apparently the British government could be put on hold, at least for a while. Mrs Hudson cries and Sherlock’s parents invite them to stay over when they get back from their honeymoon and John kicks Sherlock’s shin when he calls it a sex holiday and they giggle together in the back of the room while everyone else is dancing. 

They dance and dance and dance.

* * *

Not everything is okay. There are still days when everything gets too much to bear, when the pain of everything that happened weighs down on both of them, when Rosie cries all day long and he has a stress headache and wants nothing more than to sleep and scream and cry. 

But when those days come, Sherlock is there. He’s there so solidly and wonderfully and things feel a little bit less terrible than they did before. When John doesn’t want to talk, Sherlock sits with him in silence and makes tea. When Sherlock doesn’t want to talk, John orders takeaway and watches him work until the stress leaves him. John’s new therapist helps too, as does Rosie. She’s the light of his life, and he couldn’t wish for anything more. 

John knows that the days when it gets too much, he can tell Sherlock. He can let him in and not be judged for it. They still poke fun at each other, of course, they do, but there’s love behind it. Unspoken words, _I’m there for you, always._

* * *

The day Sherlock legally adopts Rosie, John cries. He cries and cries and cries. Not out of sadness for once in his life, but because he is so, so, undeniably and incredibly _happy._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes lives so much.

He lives when Rosie starts going to primary school and they help her with her coursework together. He lives when they’re out solving cases, catching murderers and helping Lestrade. He lives when they celebrate birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries together. He lives when they go to Tescos together and parent nights at Rosie’s school and set up bees in the alley behind Mrs Hudson’s flat. He lives for crosswords, baking with Rosie, reluctant meals with Greg and Mycroft. He lives in the flat, in John’s heart, and bed, and mind _constantly._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes lives. Sherlock Holmes lives, and John Watson lives. 

John Watson _lives_ for the first time in so, so long.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this weird little writing experiment! Comments absolutely make my day and I always take constructive criticism to heart! xx


End file.
